“Will you accompany me hither then, Mrs. Houston?”
“No, I think not, sir. I fancy Miss Helmstedt prefers a private interview with her pastor. And I believe also that such a one would afford the best opportunity for your counseling Margaret.”
“Then you will excuse me, madam?”
“Certainly; and await here the issue of your visit,” said Mrs. Houston.
With a bow, the clergyman left the room, crossed the hall, and rapped at the door of Miss Helmstedt’s parlor.
It was opened by Hildreth, who stood in her starched puritanical costume, curtseying while the pastor entered the pretty boudoir.
Margaret, still clothed in deep mourning, with her black hair plainly banded each side of her pale, clear, thoughtful face, sat in her low sewing-chair, engaged in plain needlework. She quietly laid it aside, and, with a warm smile of welcome, arose to meet her minister.
“You are looking better than when I saw you last, my child,” said the good pastor, pressing her hand, and mistaking the transient glow of pleasure for the permanent bloom of health.
“I am quite well, thank you, dear Mr. Wellworth! and you?”
“Always well, my child, thank Heaven.”